Doctor Who: The Walkerville Visitation
by Hikan
Summary: Ms. Frizzle's true identity is revealed as a mysterious man calling himself the Doctor pays Walkerville a visit. An old enemy of the Doctor's appears too, but what do they want in Walkerville? A Magic School Bus/Doctor Who crossover fic.
1. A Mysterious Man

**Walkerville, United States of America: 1996**

On a quiet street in the town of Walkerville, two children were walking home from school at Walkerville Elementary. One was a tall, African-American boy wearing a green sweater and blue jeans. His name was Tim. The other, a shorter girl, whose blond pigtails stood out against her purple sweater, was named Dorothy Ann.

"So, Tim," asked Dorothy Ann (or D.A., as she was commonly called) as she adjusted the backpack on her shoulders, "did you finish the assignment in Science? You know, the one on symbiosis?"

"Yup," answered Tim as he glanced at his friend. "Ms. Frizzle sure is a great teacher, isn't she?" He paused. "You know, sometimes I wonder where she got the magic school bus from. I mean, it's not something you can just go out and buy, is it?"

"Yeah," agreed D.A. "It's almost as if she's not from this planet, but that's ridiculous! I mean, there's no such thing as aliens. Right?"

Tim frowned. "Don't be so sure there aren't," he reminded Dorothy. "Anything's possible if you think hard enough about it. Anyways, I should be going. Mom's cooking dinner, and it's spaghetti night."

"Yes, Tim, but according to my research--" Dorothy Ann was cut off by a tall man with brown hair in a long brown trenchcoat bumping into the two students.

"Oh, hello," he said quickly, in a polished British accent. "Erm, sorry about that. I was just wondering if you knew the way to Walkerville Elementary?"

Tim spoke up first. Although he had been warned never to talk to strangers, there was something about this man that made him instantly likeable.

"Uh, sure," the boy said with a smile. "Just go down Cleveland Road and turn left onto Autumn Drive. You can't miss it."

"Good. Thanks." Then the man was gone, already heading behind a nearby house. D.A. frowned.

"Um, mister," she asked, "should you really be going on those peoples' lawn? It's trespassing, you know."

"Not if it's my own house," he called from the backyard. D.A. was stupefied.

"But how can it be your own house?" she asked, a puzzled look on her face. "That's the Smiths' house! They've owned that house for ten years now!"

"I know," curtly replied the man from the backyard. Then there was a glowing blue light and a loud sound from behind the Smiths' house. When it ceased, Tim began to run towards the back of the house.

"DON'T!" Dorothy exclaimed as she restrained him with an arm. "We'd be trespassing, too!"

"Yeah," said Tim, "but I want to find out what that noise was. Don't you?"

Dorothy Ann sighed and followed Tim to the backyard, muttering under her breath as she did so. Once the two children got there, however, they were struck dumb with what they saw.

The mysterious man stepped into a tall, blue box that said "POLICE BOX" on it and promptly faded away.

"D.A..?" Tim turned to her friend after the box disappeared.

"Yes?" answered Dorothy

"You know what you said about aliens?"

"Yeah?"

"I think we just saw one."

-

The man stood at the circular console of the blue box, which was called a TARDIS, standing for Time and Relative Dimension In Space. One of the odd things about the man's TARDIS was that it was far larger on the inside than it was the outside, so the control room of the TARDIS was a large, amber-hued room with strangely organic columns twisting everywhere and the outside was, well, a box.

Right now, the man's attention was focused on a screen on the console that showed a map of Walkerville and a single green dot pulsing in Walkerville Elementary.

"So that's where she is," he said, half-smiling. "Such a small, insignificant town. Who'd have thought?"

The Doctor started up the TARDIS. Next stop, Walkerville Elementary.


	2. Home

**Chapter Two: Home**

Miss Frizzle sat at a desk in her classroom in Walkerville Elementary with a stack of papers and a red pen. The school day had ended, but there were still plenty of school-related things to do… namely, marking, four folders of which sat on her desk.

It had been, what, three years since she had come to Walkerville? She'd spent the first year becoming acquainted with the area, gathering the necessary paperwork before becoming a teacher at the school in the second. That year, she had been placed in charge of Grade Two, with half of her students being moved into a second Grade Three class when school began the next September (which, she was quick to point out to anyone that asked, had _not _been her fault, despite letters from several concerned parents; it had been the result of increased registration instead).

The students that remained— Arnold, Carlos, Dorothy Ann, Keesha, Ralphie, Tim and Wanda— had been joined by Phoebe, a transfer student from another school in Walkerville (the name of which she couldn't recall). It made things easier, having a smaller class, especially when they went on field trips, and if complications arose, Liz, her pet lizard (well, not really "pet") could handle the situation until she figured something out.

Her eyes scanned the contents of the first folder before her. English. A hit-and-miss course, as far as her class was concerned.

Taking up her pen with a sigh, she began the long, arduous task of grading. This job wasn't as bad as some made it seem… it was just the homework that scared most people off.

-

Louise Winters, the school receptionist, put down her book and looked up at the strange man who had just walked by her desk near the front doors of the school. The man looked like he knew where he was headed, but she decided to stop him just in case. _You could never tell who was crazy and who wasn't,_ Louise thought to herself, _especially after that incident in Scotland. What was it again?_

"Excuse me, sir," she said, "but can I help you?"

The man blinked. "Oh, um, sure. I was wondering if you could tell me where Ms. Frizzle's classroom is? I'm from the school board," he added, flashing a piece of paper that read _James McCrimmon, Walkerville School Division_. Louise nodded.

"Certainly, sir. Ms. Frizzle's class is down the hall, fourth door on the left."

The man was already gone. Louise was about to settle back into reading _Alias Grace _by Margaret Atwood (it had been recommended by her book club) when a thought struck her.

_Dunblane. The name of it was Dunblane. _

To make matters worse, she had noticed a peculiar shape in one of Mr. McCrimmon's pockets. It _had _resembled a pen, and could have been just that, but after Dunblane, well, you never knew…

--

"Sir! _Sir!_"

The Doctor wheeled around to see the receptionist from before— what was her name again? Thelma? —standing in front of him, breathing heavily, with a sheepish smile on her face.

"Excuse me, sir," she said, inhaling and exhaling. "I just— I just remembered… Mrs. Frizzle isn't in today. She went home early."

"But her classroom is just up here," the Doctor said, gesturing towards the other end of the hallway. "You said so."

She inhaled. "I know. I'm sorry, sir. I was caught up in a book I was reading, and…"

"Oh, it's no bother," the Doctor said quickly as he began to walk down the hallway to the front desk. "Which book were you reading?"

"_Alias Grace, _by Margaret Atwood."

"Sounds like a good read. You should get back to that. By the way," he called from his position by the front doors, "what was your name?"

"Louise, sir. Louise Winters." 

"Good name, Louise. I like people named Louise. Good night, Louise. Stay away from the Grand Canyon, now."

"Certainly, sir," Louise said, utterly perplexed as Mr. McCrimmon strode through the doors. "You have a good night too."

She returned to her desk and began packing up. Tonight had been the strangest night in all five years she'd been secretary at Walkerville Elementary, and she just wanted to go home.

Home, she decided as she pushed the glass front doors open into the cool October air, was probably the safest place for anyone to be at the moment.

-

"So, what did you do at school today, Tim?"

Tim's mother raised a forkful of curled spaghetti and smiled at her son from across the table. He shifted in his seat at the other end of their circular table.

"Not anything exciting, really," he said. "Just schoolwork."

"Your class seems to go on field trips quite often," his father said, glancing at Tim from his chair between his wife and son. "Have you gone on any recently?"

"Just once," Tim said, taking a sip of water. "We went to the supermarket. Mrs. Frizzle showed us fish and we figured out if they were freshwater or saltwater."

"That's very interesting, son," his father said. "What else can you tell us about the super—"

The doorbell rang.

"I'll get it," Tim said, being careful to get out of his chair as slowly as possible, and walked through the dining room and kitchen to the front door. He opened it.

It was Dorothy Ann, wearing a pale blue sweater and holding a thick, leather-bound book in her hands.

"D.A.!" he said, and then stepped outside to join her on the front step. "What are you doing here?"

"I was doing some research at the library before it closed, and I found something you might be interested in."

"Can it wait?" Tim said, glancing at the front door. "I'm eating dinner."

"Can you tell your parents I'll just be a minute?" she said. "Tell them we're studying together or something."

"I don't know," he said. "I'll have to check."

He slipped through the door before D.A. could say another word.

-

Tim found the dining room exactly as he'd left it— three glasses, three forks, three half-eaten plates of spaghetti— with one exception: his parents. All he could hear was murmurs coming from the end of the hallway that led to the bedrooms.

"Mom? Dad?" he called, walking down the carpeted hallway towards its end: the master bedroom. He'd never been allowed to go in there alone— why, he didn't know.

The murmurs were stronger now. Tim crept closer and put his ear to the bedroom door.

"_Just lay off her, alright?" _That was a higher voice, probably his mother.

"_Are you kidding me?" _the deeper voice of his father said. _"Tim has been going on field trips all the time and we haven't signed one permission slip. What do you make of that?"_

"_I don't know," _his mother said, sounding wearied. _"It's only her second year at Walkerville Elementary. What do you expect?"_

"_You're right. It's her second year at Walkerville Elementary. That gives her no excuse for her behavior. No self-respecting teacher would organize a field trip without _notifying the parents_!"_

"_So what do you want to do? Get her _fired_?"_

"_Do you see any other solution?"_

"_Andrew," _his mother said, exasperated, _"listen to me. You're going too far. I'm sure Mrs. Frizzle has her reasons."_

"_Oh yeah, and she had her 'reasons' last year too! We both know that the Grade Threes weren't split up this year because of some stupid 'increase in registration'. It was to keep those kids _away from her_!"_

"_You're talking nonsense. I spoke to Amanda's mom over the phone last week, and she seemed fine—"_

"—_Aside from the weekly sessions with a psychiatrist, yeah."_

"_Now, we don't know if Mrs. Frizzle is the cause of _that_—"_

"_Then explain Amanda's constant babbling about going inside pipes at the waterworks. Traveling through the nose. Landing on Mars!"_

"_Amanda always struck me as being a little, well, odd."_

"_But not like that! Do you see what she's done to these kids? She's _traumatizing them_!"_

"_No need to raise your voice, Andrew," _his mother said, and Tim suddenly felt as if the temperature in the bedroom had dropped considerably. _"We'll discuss this later. I would advise you to not, by any means, act on your suspicions until we have _considerable_ proof. Is that clear?"_

"_Yes, dear."_

"_And what are we going to do now?"_

"_Go back to the dining room and pretend like nothing has happened."_

"_Excellent."_

Tim got up and raced down the hall, his heart pounding, slid into his chair and twirled some spaghetti around his fork as his parents left the master bedroom and entered the dining room.

"Mom, Dad," Tim said, "D.A. wants to know if she can come in for a few minutes. We're studying."

"That sounds great, honey," his mother said, smiling warmly but, at the same time, sending chills down Tim's spine. "That sounds great."

He left his chair and hurried down the hallway.

-

"Thanks for letting me in," D.A. said ten minutes later, sitting on Tim's bed as he sat at his computer desk. "What took you so long?"

"Oh, nothing," Tim said, feeling guilty as he fiddled with a pencil.

"That's good. I want you to see what I found in this book."

Tim stood up from his desk and joined D.A. on the bed. She placed the book face-up on her lap, and Tim could see the book was called _A History of Walkerville, Volume 3: 1980 and Onward._

"I've never seen this book before," he said. D.A. smiled.

"It's not exactly the sort of thing kids our age would be reading. I had to ask Mrs. Cole to fetch it for me from one of the top shelves."

She began flipping through pages. "Most of it's boring, just elections and stuff, until we get to the family histories at the back of the book. Here."

She had stopped at one page, near the back of the book, with a picture of a tall, handsome man and a shorter, blonde-haired woman smiling and embracing in front of a house.

"Listen to this," she said, and began to read.

"_The Smith Family: John and Marion Smith. John Smith married Marion Prentice in the summer of 1985 and the two moved to Walkerville later that year. John Smith—"_

"_John Smith? _I thought he was a character in _Pocahontas._"

"Maybe," D.A. said. "Listen." 

"—_bought the house on Cleveland Road as a present for Marion. The two do not have any plans for children at the moment, but hope to start a family in the future."_

She pointed at the picture at the top of the page. "Who does John Smith look like to you?" Tim studied the picture for a moment before his eyes widened.

"It's the man," he said. "The man in the trenchcoat!"

He sat up. "But that's impossible… this picture was taken in the 1980s. There's no way this is him. They look exactly the same!"

"Exactly," D.A. said, closing _A History of Walkerville, Volume 3 _shut. "We need to find out more about this John Smith, and about this Marion Prentice too."

"But how?"

"Oh, don't worry," D.A. said, smiling in a way most unlike herself. "I have a plan."

--

**Based on what I can remember, Amanda was one of the original students in the classic Magic School Bus book series. It's always fun to throw in references like that. **

**What's D.A.'s plan? Find out next time on **_**The Walkerville Visitation!**_


	3. Right on Time

**Chapter Three: Right on Time**

The autumn breeze tugged at Tim's navy windbreaker as he waited outside the front doors of Walkerville Elementary. D.A. had called his house that morning and told him to wait outside the front doors before school started, and, judging by his watch, the warning bell would ring at any minute.

He watched every girl entering the school, but none of them were her. Sure, a lot of them had sweaters, but none of them were the colors she usually wore. And a lot of them had blonde hair, but none of them wore it the same way she did— in pigtails, with red clips. Sometimes, he realized, she didn't wear a sweater, but had a T-shirt instead…

"Tim?" He looked up and saw D.A. standing there, arms crossed. She was wearing a purple sweater.

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah," he said. "I'm okay."

"Good. Hurry up, or we'll be late for library period."

"I thought you were going to tell me something."

"I will. In library period."

"_In library period?_"

Still in a daze, Tim followed D.A. inside.

-

As Tim and D.A. were making their way to the library, Ms. Frizzle was in the teachers' lounge, tapping on the counter surface and waiting for her coffee to finish brewing. The Walkerville Elementary coffee machine had been given the nickname "Old Faithful" because, like the geyser that was its namesake, its brewing period lasted precisely two and a half minutes. Unfortunately for Mrs. Frizzle, she was in a hurry, and waiting two and a half minutes for a single cup of coffee was just not going to cut.

"I wish I could speed up time," she mused aloud.

"Don't we all, Val," someone said behind her.

Ms. Frizzle started and whirled around to see a tall, dark-skinned man peering at the enormous master timetable that adorned one wall.

"Oh, hello, Mr. Ruhle," she said, hoping she wasn't blushing.

"Please, Valerie," he said, flashing brilliant white teeth. "Call me Max."

"Sounds good, sir— Max, I mean. Max."

"I was thinking the exact same thing," he said, gesturing at the master timetable. "It feels like first period goes far too slowly for my taste. I've suggested we begin at eight-thirty to the Board of Directors countless times, but they never take me seriously."

"I take you seriously, sir," Ms. Frizzle said. Mr. Ruhle smiled.

"I thought you might. What does your class have first period, Valerie?"

"Well, right now they're in the library, with the other half of third grade. I was just going to my classroom to catch up on some work Louise left in my mailbox. Do you know where she is?"

"Ms. Winters was contacted by a member of the Board of Directors last night— a Mr. McCrimmon, I believe. He informed her that there was an error in her calendar, and that she should have been on vacation the few weeks. She's taking that time off now, with double pay to boot."

"I had no idea the Board of Directors was that generous," Ms. Frizzle said, raising an eyebrow. "Who's replacing her?"

"Some woman we've hired. I can't remember her name— Amy, is it? Amy March?"

Ms. Frizzle froze. "_Amy_ March? Mother of _Timothy_ March?"

"That sounds right," Mr. Ruhle said. "Why? Do you have a concern?"

The room was silent for what felt close to eternity. Then there was a beep.

"Excuse me, Max," Ms. Frizzle said, turning away. "Old Faithful's right on time."

She took a mug from the cupboard above the counter and filled it with coffee before turning back to Mr. Ruhle.

"Mmm," she said, taking a sip. "That is a _good _cup of coffee."

"I'm sure it is," Mr. Ruhle said. Ms. Frizzle glanced at the clock.

"Whoops, look at the time. I have to run. I'd love to talk again sometime, though. Do you have any other spares today?"

"No," he said, trying not to let his disappointment show. "I'll see you later, then?"

"Sounds good."

With that, Ms. Frizzle left the teachers' lounge, coffee cup in hand. Mr. Ruhle waited a few minutes before doing the same.

-

Fifteen minutes into library period, D.A. passed Tim a note under the table they shared, an event so unlike D.A. that it took Tim several minutes to even register the note's crumpled existence in his curled palm.

At last, he opened it, and quickly scanned its contents.

_Meet me in the Story Corner when quiet reading ends. _

_-D.A._

The note made Tim anxious enough to keep him from reading his signed-out copy of _Stuart Little_; instead, he stared at his watch, wishing the uncomfortable silence that filled the room would somehow be disrupted.

To his relief, after several painful minutes, Mrs. Newsome, the librarian (presently at her desk) looked at her watch and sighed in what could have either been exasperation or relief. "Quiet reading's over. You can work in small groups now, but please keep the noise to a minimum. Thank you."

Then she turned away from the students, towards her computer and began clicking away. Tim had always wondered what Mrs. Newsome _did _once quiet reading was over, but put such thoughts in the back of his mind as he headed over to the Story Corner at the other end of the library, where he found D.A., already sitting on a pillow.

The Story Corner was where the Kindergarten and Grade One classes— which had been _his _class, not so long ago— sat and listened to their teachers read from various books. He'd never liked it, and wondered if any of his classmates— especially Phoebe, who had come from another school, after all— had liked it either.

"So," he said quietly, once he had found a pillow of his own, "what did you want to tell me?"

"I have a plan for finding out more about the Smiths," D.A. whispered. "I'm going to the records office after school."

"The _records office? _Why?"

"Well, John and Marion had to have been married, didn't they? Why else would they be listed under the same last name?"

"I don't know, D.A. This was before we were born. Who knows what life was like back then—"

"Even if they weren't married," D.A. said, "they bought a house. My point is, there's got to be something in that office that can tell us more about them— maybe even how old this John Smith is."

"Wait. You're not just going to walk in there and ask to see a complete stranger's records, are you?"

"Of _course _not! I called them this morning and pretended I was my mother."

"You pretended you were your mother?"

"All I have to do is go there after school and tell them my mother sent me instead. It's simple."

"But what if they don't take you seriously?"

"Well, if they don't, I'll just have to—"

A woman's voice crackled over the library intercom before D.A. could finish, a voice that sounded all too familiar to Tim.

"_Mr. Ruhle, line one. Mr. Ruhle, line one."_

Tim stared at the intercom in dismay.

"_Mom?"_

-

"_Mr. Ruhle, line one. Mr. Ruhle, line one."_

Ms. Frizzle put down her pen and glanced at the intercom. The woman speaking, as she had feared, was indeed Amy March, someone she had never been on best terms with…

-

"_I'd like to welcome everyone to the Third Annual Grade Two Parents' Lunch!" Ms. Frizzle announced from her position at the head table, looking out at the gymnasium (which had been commandeered for the event). "As you may know, this lunch was started by Mrs. Goldberg as a way for all you parents to meet and, hopefully, make friendships with not only other parents, but (I hope) with me. Please enjoy the food, and, uh, let the lunch begin!"_

_As she sat down to an enthusiastic round of applause, she caught sight of Mr. Ruhle beaming at her from across the table._

"_You did a great job," he said. "Besides, Mrs. Goldberg had this _terrible _stutter, and it's nice to have someone that can actually get through complex sentences."_

"_Thank you," she said, unsure if it was a compliment or an insult._

_As the lunch progressed, parents drifted by her table, many of them to ask personal questions, which she was able to handle with ease. A few complimented her on her speech._

_It was when Amy March dropped by— her husband had been unable to make it— that she began to feel uneasy._

"_I just wanted to say how _excited _I am for Tim to be in your class this year," she said, shaking Ms. Frizzle's hand. "I was just wondering, where did you get those _beautiful _earrings of yours? They look amazingly realistic!"_

_Ms, Frizzle fingered one of her earrings— today, in honor of the luncheon, she was wearing a sandwich-inspired dress, with lettuce-leaf earrings to complete the look— and forced herself to smile._

"_Thank you, Amy," she said. "I got them in New York, actually. On Madison Avenue."_

"_Really?" Tim's mother said, smiling. "I would never have guessed. I suppose my fashion sense has always been a few seasons behind."_

_Before Amy walked off, she turned around again. "By the way, great speech! So much better than Mrs. Goldberg."_

_Mr. Ruhle reached across the table and patted her arm reassuringly._

"_Don't worry," he said. "I'm sure she didn't mean it."_

"_Oh, I know," she said, playing with an earring again. "I know she didn't."_

-

As the Walkerville Records Office was half a block away from the elementary school; it took just over five minutes for D.A. to walk there. The building itself was made of a drab brick, hardly the sort of material, D.A. thought, you would use to build such an important place.

As she pushed open the slightly dusty front door and slipped inside, she could confirm that the building's importance had also had no effect on the dull grey paint chosen for its waiting room and front desk. Seeing as there was no-one sitting in the waiting room (she couldn't blame them; the chairs looked uncomfortable), D.A. decided to simply walk up to the front desk, where a bored-looking man sat, transfixed by his computer screen.

"Hi there," she said. "My mom phoned this morning and said she wanted to see the records of a certain person, but she's still at work, so she sent me instead. Is that okay?"

"Sure," he said, his eyes firmly on the screen. "What does your mom do, anyways?"

"She's an accountant," D.A said. "She does peoples' taxes."

"Can't say I envy _her. _What was the name of the person she wanted to look at?""

"John Smith."

A few minutes passed. The man sighed.

"I'm sorry, but we don't _have_ a John Smith in our database."

"No John Smith? Are you _sure_?"

"Look, all of our records are on this thing, and it's practically state-of-the-art. If the computer says there isn't a John Smith in Walkerville, _then there isn't a John Smith in Walkerville_. Am I clear?"

"Yes. Can you do something else, though?"

"What?"

"Can you look up Marion Prentice? See if she ever existed."

"Marion Prentice, huh? This won't take long."

After several minutes of typing, he sighed again.

"No Marion Prentice either. Look, kid. Unless you have more imaginary people for me to search for, I'd suggest you leave. I have work to do."

"I guess I will," D.A. said as she turned towards the door. "Thanks for your help, though. I'm sorry it didn't turn out."

"We all make mistakes, kid. This just happened to be one of them. Have a good evening."

"You too. Bye."

"Bye."

As soon as the Records Office door had closed firmly behind her, D.A. took a deep breath and ran all the way home, trying to keep a feeling she couldn't quite name at bay as she dashed along the Walkerville sidewalks.

She couldn't wait to tell Tim.

--

_**To be continued…**_


	4. Surprises

**Chapter Four: Surprises**

The sky took on an ominous grey hue as D.A. hurried home. While passing Walkerville Elementary, she noticed only a few cars remained in the parking lot, and a single window shone with light. That was hardly enough to merit further examination, but after what she had just learned, everything— and everyone— deserved a closer look.

-

Ms. Frizzle, if she had some sort of connection to D.A.'s mind, would have likely admired her pupil's diligent nature as she threw down her marking pen (which had been grading English assignments moments ago) and sighed, burying her head in her hands as it ricocheted off the desk and landed on the floor.

She needed coffee. Badly. And there was only one place to get it…

-

The teachers' lounge was, thankfully, empty as Ms. Frizzle let the door close behind her and practically lunged for Old Faithful, tossing the instant coffee and water into the machine with almost superhuman speed and precision.

Two and a half minutes, she decided, wasn't so bad. She'd been in places where the coffee practically took millennia to boil. Now, if only she didn't have to deal with that snobby Amy March.

"Good evening, Valerie," a woman said behind her. Judging by the voice, it was Amy.

"Speak of the devil," she muttered.

"What?" Amy asked.

"Oh, nothing," Ms. Frizzle said, placing a hand on the machine as she turned to greet her. "Just brewing some coffee."

Amy, she noted, was wearing jade-hued glass earrings and a fashionably-cut dress made of orange fabric whose absence of sleeves allowed her toned arms to stand out. _How she manages to stay so fit,_ Ms. Frizzle thought, glancing at those arms, _I'll never know._

"How is the coffee here, anyways?" Amy asked, inspecting her cubbyhole. "I see they haven't put my name on one of these yet. That'll have to change, of course."

"Oh, it's not bad," Ms. Frizzle said. "It's like any other coffee, really."

"I don't suppose you have any _milk_ here, do you?"

"No."

"Pity. I'll have to bring some. Speaking of coffee, I was wondering if you might like to join the next session of my book club. We're meeting tonight, and I assumed you didn't have anything planned, so..."

"That would be great," Ms. Frizzle said, while thinking exactly the opposite. "Where's your house?"

"13 Forgill Drive. Should I write it down for you?" Amy began to dig around in her purse as another person entered the teachers' lounge and began rummaging through a cupboard, their back turned to the two women.

"Here," Ms. Frizzle said, removing a pen from her pocket. Her eyes met Amy's, and in that moment, she saw a strange sort of desperation in the other woman's eyes— or had she? Maybe Amy just really wanted a pen.

"Thank you," Amy said, withdrawing a scrap of paper from her purse and jotting the address down, then handing it to Ms. Frizzle. "See you at four-thirty?"

"Sure," Ms. Frizzle said, glancing at the nearby clock. It was almost four, so she'd have to leave her marking at school if she was going to go home, choose an outfit and find out something about the book she would be discussing. Speaking of which…

"And Amy," she said, just as Amy was about to leave, "what's the book again?"

"_Alias Grace,_" she said, "by Margaret Atwood. Don't worry— you don't have to read it if you don't want to, but it'd probably help you understand what's going on."

"Thanks," Ms. Frizzle called as the lounge door slid neatly shut behind Amy. After pouring herself a cup of coffee (which had long since turned cold; had their conversation _really _been that long?), she departed as well.

-

Once he was sure both women were gone, Mr. Ruhle stood up and turned away from the cupboard in which he had pretended to root through for what had seemed like ages.

"Book club, hm?" he said, glancing around at the empty teachers' lounge. That would mean his plans for the rest of the evening would have to be significantly altered, but what he had just heard made it more important than he'd previously realized.

"I'll have to call them," he muttered while leaving the teachers' lounge, "_early._"

Something occurred to him, and he smiled.

-

Twenty minutes later, standing outside the front door of 13 Forgill Drive, Ms. Frizzle took one final look at her reflection in the gold-plated mailbox to the right. To make sure she appeared as normal as possible, Ms. Frizzle had elected to wear a sensible black suit, with matching earrings and, as usual, ruby red lipstick.

She rang the doorbell. Immediately, almost eerily so, the door opened to reveal Amy March, wearing an (admittedly) stunning pale green dress.

"Hi, Val!" she said. "Do come in. You don't mind if I call you Val, do you? I just thought that, since we're on a first-name basis, working at the same school and all, you wouldn't mind…"

"Val is fine, thanks," Ms. Frizzle said as she stepped indoors. "My, you have such a lovely house! How long have you been living here?"

"Oh, I can't remember," Amy said, laughing. "Sooner or later, it's all just a blur. We're meeting in the living room— if you'd follow me?"

Ms. Frizzle followed Amy to the living room, a spacious room with a picture window facing the street. A sofa, currently occupied by two women she had never seen before, faced three other chairs.

"Ladies," Amy said, bidding them rise, "this is Valerie Frizzle, who's joining us tonight. She teaches my son at Walkerville Elementary. Val, this is Marjorie Collins."

"Pleased to meet you," the first woman, in vibrant purple that complimented her long, raven-hued locks, said, shaking Ms. Frizzle's hand before sitting down.

"And this is Kara Horne." The second woman, in quiet, inconspicuous grey, pushed her chocolate-coloured locks aside as she smiled and took Ms. Frizzle's offered hand.

Amy sat down in the rightmost chair facing the sofa; Ms. Frizzle, wanting to be friendly, sat down next to her.

"So, how's Tim?" she asked. "He doesn't seem to be in."

"Oh, he's at the Taylors', across the road. He and Dorothy Ann are studying, or something. They always seemed like a cute little couple."

Ms. Frizzle wasn't sure what to say to this.

"Can I get anyone coffee?" Amy said, alighting from her seat after mere seconds of sitting down. "Marjorie? Kara? Val?"

All three nodded..

"And what about milk?" Amy called as she headed towards another room, presumably the kitchen.

Only Kara and Marjorie nodded this time; Ms. Frizzle, after some hesitation, nodded as well.

"Here you go," Amy said five minutes later as she returned to the living room, holding a wooden tray on which four ceramic mugs sat. Marjorie and Kara accepted and sipped theirs without comment; however, when Ms. Frizzle was handed hers, she took one sip and noted that something was very different about this particular cup of coffee.

"Amy," she said, peering down at the thick, foam-like _stuff _that seemed to fill most of her ceramic mug, "is it just me or is the milk you used is, well, a little _richer _than usual?"

"Oh," Amy said, eyes wide, "you've _never had Belgian coffee?_"

"I can't say I have. What _is _'Belgian coffee'?"

"It's coffee made with Belgian cream, of course! What else would it be?"

"Oh, well, I don't know… are we expecting someone?" Ms. Frizzle asked, glancing at the chair beside her.

"Oh, _no,_" Marjorie said. "That chair is for Louise."

"Louise?" Ms. Frizzle frowned. "You mean Louise _Winters?_ Isn't she on vacation?"

"Well, yes," Kara said, "but we keep it empty for her, out of courtesy."

"More like out of the kindness of our hearts," Marjorie said, scoffing. "We only took Louise in because no-one else would have her. She doesn't even _read _the books, just watches the movies. When it comes to actual discussion, she's _useless._"

"Which brings us to this month's book," Amy said quickly, "which, coincidentally, has no movie. What did everyone think of _Alias Grace?_"

"Stunning," Marjorie proclaimed, taking a deep swig of coffee.

"I loved the ending," Kara said. "What did _you _think, Val?"

"Well," she said, flashing a nervous smile, "seeing as my invitation was _very _last-minute, I didn't have time to actually _read_ _Alias Grace._"

She paused. "I'm sure it's a wonderful book and all, but— but—"

As if completing her thought, the doorbell rang.

"I'll get that," Amy said, setting down her coffee. Minutes later, she returned to the living room, face red.

"Val," she said, struggling to keep her bewilderment in check, "it's for _you._"

Ms. Frizzle crept cautiously down the hallway, although all her efforts at keeping a cool head evaporated when faced with Mr. Ruhle standing on the Marchs' doorstep, holding something behind his back.

"What are _you _doing here?" she spluttered.

"Rescuing you," he said, handing her a singularly wrapped crimson-coloured flower. "Do you like roses? I thought you liked roses."

"Why would I need to be _rescued? _I'm having a wonderful time."

"No, you're not," he said. "I can see it in your eyes."

For the second time that evening, Ms. Frizzle found herself at a loss for words.

"Listen," he said, "I've booked us a table at Mare Scuro for an hour from now. That gives me enough time to drive you home and for _you _to get changed into something that doesn't look like you just came back from a funeral."

"You don't know that," she said, following him down the driveway and towards his silver Honda Accord in a daze. "And _Mare Scuro? _That's the most expensive restaurant in Walkerville! Do you realize I have to pay my bills?"

"Hey," Mr. Ruhle said, sliding into the driver's seat, "don't worry about it. I'm the president of Walkerville Elementary. I can handle it."

The mention of Walkerville Elementary stirred something deep in Ms. Frizzle's mind.

"If it's not too much trouble," she said, sitting down in the front passenger seat, "can we stop at the school first? I just have to pick some things up."

"I don't see why not," he said, turning his key in the ignition. "Let's go."

-

As Ms. Frizzle slipped her key in the front door lock of Walkerville Elementary, she had the curious sensation she was being watched. Just to make sure, after disabling the alarm system, she tugged on the door to confirm it was locked.

Her desk was just the way she'd left it, and through the dark, her eyes perceived a stack of paper sitting squarely in its center.

She turned on the light and began moving towards the desk, closing the door firmly behind her as she did so. She would gather up the homework, find a box to stuff it in, turn off the light and leave the school, simple as that.

There was one thing wrong with such a plan, however.

As if prompted by fate, someone knocked.

-

**Who is Ms. Frizzle's mysterious visitor? Find out next time on **_**The Walkerville Visitation!**_


	5. You Never Know

**Chapter Five – You Never Know**

When the first knock came, Ms. Frizzle, despite being trained for precisely this sort of situation, didn't know what to do. She was alone in a school that had closed for the day, trapped inside her own classroom— hardly comparing to the training scenarios, which had taken place during the day _and _in the company of other teachers and students. (She had no such luck here.)

Maybe the janitor was nearby?

The stranger knocked again.

Maybe the stranger _was _the janitor. But janitors had keys, didn't they? They wouldn't need to knock.

The stranger knocked a third time, and Ms. Frizzle, over the pounding in her chest, could have sworn she heard a strange _bzzing _sound just outside the door.

_Oh, great, _she thought. _They've got power tools._

The _bzzing _stopped, and, as the familiar squeak of hinges turning inward filled the air, Ms. Frizzle made herself as small as possible and hid beneath her desk, pulling her chair in as far as she could. It was a standard desk, with a metal front and a space for a chair to go.

She closed her eyes.

"Hello," a man said. "Anyone there?"

It was a voice that, to Ms. Frizzle's astonishment, sounded strangely familiar.

-

"Are you sure your mom's okay with this?" D.A. looked over at Tim one more time, _The History of Walkerville Volume 3: 1980 to the Present _on her lap. "She seemed a little, well, anxious over the phone."

"It's book club night, and she's hosting," Tim said. "It's always a big production. She buys expensive milk and everything."

D.A. frowned. "What would anyone need _expensive milk _for?"

Tim shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe it's something you need when you're older. Did you go to the records' office like you said?"

D.A. sighed and set _A History of Walkerville _aside. "Yes."

"And?"

"Nothing."

"_Nothing?_"

"Nothing."

"What do you mean, _nothing?_"

"Nothing— no birth certificates, tax forms, mortgages, anything at all about John Smith _or _Marion Prentice."

"So, according to this office, they never existed?"

"Well, all their files are on the computer now, so the only logical explanation is that John and Marion's records just happened to vanish when all the other files were moved. But that's highly unlikely."

"But they exist," Tim said, "in your book."

"Yes," D.A. said, "_but why don't they exist anywhere else_?"

"I don't know. Maybe they _wanted _the records deleted?"

"Who would want _that?_"

"I don't know," Tim said. "If John Smith is the same man we saw stepping into that police box, maybe _he _would. What do we know about aliens in Walkerville?"

"Not much," D.A. said, sighing and reaching for the book next to her, "but maybe others do." She opened it to the index.

"Let's see… Aliens… page 114. Okay."

She began to read aloud. "_The mysterious Walkerville Forest has long been a source of myth and legend in the Walkerville community. Many have been said to venture into the forest and never be seen again. _

_Perhaps the most famous of these disappearances was in the spring of 1983. Four students in their third year of high school went into the forest on the night of the fall dance and, for many hours, were deemed missing. Later, however, all four emerged from the forest, unharmed and mildly dazed. The cause of their disappearance remains a mystery to this day, although some have suggested that extraterrestrial forces were involved."_

"That's strange," she said. "My mom and dad were in their third year of high school in 1983 and _they _never said anything."

"Well, why would they?" Tim said. "I'm not sure _my _parents would say anything either, if I asked them."

D.A. paused. "Could you do that?"

There was silence. Tim shifted.

"I don't know," he said. "I think they'd be upset if I asked them a question like that."

"_You _think they'd be upset," D.A. said. "_I _think they'd be relieved. Maybe I should ask my parents too…"

Tim cleared his throat. "Uh, D.A.?"

"Yes, Tim?"

"What if they _are _upset?"

She considered this for a moment. "Well, if you _really _want to find out something, there

's always going through their stuff."

Tim couldn't tell if she was joking.

-

"Hello?" the man said, louder. "Is anyone there?"

_Don't do anything, _Ms. Frizzle thought desperately to herself. _If I don't do anything, he'll go away._

She heard the man's footsteps as he walked around the classroom, pausing at various intervals. Then he stopped, and Ms. Frizzle couldn't figure out _where _he was.

She peered through the small gap of space between the metal front and the floor and saw a pair of red sneakers. He was standing by her desk!

She inhaled, and could, judging by the way his feet shifted, sense the man standing at attention.

The _bzzing _sound returned, and then stopped as abruptly as it had started.

"Hello?" the man said, a third time. "Is anyone there?"

Out of the corner of her eye Ms. Frizzle saw a small, bright red sphere on the panel above her. It was the panic button all classrooms in Walkerville Elementary had been outfitted with after Dunblane. If she used it, someone would (hopefully) come and help.

The only problem was that the position Ms. Frizzle had forced herself into was as far away from the panic button as possible— she'd spent so much time trying to remember it was there, and here she was forgetting it when she needed it most— and to actually _get _to the darn thing, she would have to push the chair back, slide out, stand up, and push the button _that _way. It was a risk she was willing to take.

She began slowly pushing her back against the chair, and, if she hadn't been so focused on her current task, could have heard the man's feet shift yet again. Once the chair was gone, she began, using the floor for friction, pushing herself away from the desk.

She stood up and looked the stranger dead in the eyes. He was dressed in clothes that, even to someone with Ms. Frizzle's fashion sense, seemed strange: a blue pinstripe suit and a brown trench coat, topped off by the red sneakers she'd seen before.

"Can I help you?" she asked.

"Well, that depends," he said, shrugging, "on whether or not you can answer my question."

"Which is?"

"Why was someone like you, Valerie Frizzle, hiding under your own desk?"

_He knows my name? My _full _name? _"Oh," she said, "I was just… looking for something."

Her left hand began to slowly move across the underside of her desk towards the panic button.

"How did you know my first name? It's not something I usually tell people."

"Well, to be honest, it's not your _real _name, is it?"

Her left hand froze. This man, somehow, knew who she really was.

What was she going to do?

"I wouldn't do anything particularly drastic," he said. "You're not the type. Even in Maintenance class, you always double-checked my Helmic regulator's circuits to make sure they were functioning properly— before checking yours, of course."

She took a deep breath. "_Doctor?!_"

"The one and only."

Ms. Frizzle stepped out from behind her desk to take a closer look at the Doctor. "But— but— but— they told me you were _dead!_"

"Same thing they said about you," he grinned. "How did you survive?"

"Oh, I fled in my TARDIS to some planet called Sto. Have you been there?"

His gaze darkened. "No."

Ms. Frizzle paused. "Is something wrong?"

"No," the Doctor said. "Just remembering someone."

"Anyway, once I got there, I became a secretary—"

"You? A _secretary_? Wasn't your life's ambition to become President of Gallifrey?"

"Let's just say my plans were drastically changed. Capricorn Industries paid well, but after I began conducting a private investigation into the owner's disappearance, let's just say I wasn't quite as welcome as I'd previously been."

:"So you came here."

She nodded. "The TARDIS randomly selected this place for me. Isn't it nice? How'd you get here, anyways? I thought the door was locked."

"Oh," he said, turning red. "I sonic'd it."

"You _were _always addicted to that toy. Boys and their toys, hm?"

She smirked. "Men never change, I guess."

"Oi! It's _not _a toy!" the Doctor said, affronted. "And I can change, I-I try to be post-feminist."

"Speaking of change…" Ms. Frizzle took a moment to study the Doctor's face. "What regeneration are you on? Ninth? Eleventh?"

"Tenth," he said. "I hope I stay this way, I like this body. I can't imagine what I'll be like in the Eleventh. Some scrawny twenty-year-old body, I suppose."

He paused. "Why? What regeneration are _you _on?"

She shuffled her feet. "My third."

"_Third? _I thought you'd be, well, _older._"

"You always liked them young," she said. "Did you just come to Walkerville to talk?"

He smiled. "Well, unless you have other ideas…"

"You're kidding me! You _never _go anywhere without a plan."

"I just happened to pick something up on my scanners and thought I'd drop by."

"I don't believe you."

"I don't believe _this,_" the Doctor said, waving a hand around. "Why didn't I sense you earlier? Why didn't the _Master?_"

"Your guess is as good as mine," she said, shrugging. "Maybe I was lucky."

"Maybe," the Doctor said, turning towards the door. "Nevertheless, t was good to see you. I might pop round again soon. You never know."

"I'm looking forward to it," Mrs. Frizzle said, and although the Doctor couldn't see it, she was smiling.

"I'll just make my way out of here— oof!"

Ms. Frizzle looked up and saw, to her horror, that the Doctor had collided with Mr. Ruhle.

"Hi, Val," Mr. Ruhle said, twirling a rose in his left hand. "You left this in the car."

"Thank you," she said, while Mr. Ruhle glanced at the Doctor.

"And you are?"

"James McCrimmon," he said, flashing his psychic paper. "Walkerville School Division."

"So _you're _the James McCrimmon I talked to on the phone! Very nice to meet you," he said, offering a hand.

"I was just on my way out," the Doctor said, shaking the proffered hand as he stepped out into the hallway. "Have a good evening, Ms. Frizzle."

"You too, uh, James," she said. "You too."

Mr. Ruhle turned towards her, the rose still in his left hand.

"So," he said, "where were we?"

-

"Welcome to Mare Scuro!" The girl at reception, dressed in stylish blue, broke into a smile at the sight of a well-dressed couple coming through the doors. "Do you have a reservation?"

"Yes," Mr. Ruhle said, dressed in a grey pinstripe suit. Ms. Frizzle stood beside him, wearing a pale green gown and trying not to gawk at her luxurious surroundings.

Mare Scuro was the most expensive restaurant in Walkerville, and for good reason. Its walls were painted a rich, luxurious red, matching the ivory-hued tablecloths and ornate carpet. Windows lined the western wall of the restaurant. Soft classical music played from hidden speakers, probably hidden, she supposed, somewhere under the large marble statues of various Greek gods.

"It'll be under Ruhle," he said, startling Ms. Frizzle from her reverie. "For two?"

"Certainly," the girl said, taking two menus from a cubby behind the desk. "Follow me."

Once Mr. Ruhle and Ms. Frizzle were seated at a small, round table for two by a window, she placed the menus before them and walked off.

"Welcome to Mare Scuro," a tall man with short brown hair said, taking her place. "I'm Dominic, and I'll be serving you this fine evening. How are we today?"

"Fine, thank you," Mr. Ruhle said.

"Both of you are dressed _very _well. Are you celebrating an anniversary, perhaps?"

"Thank you, but no," Ms. Frizzle said. "We're not married." She could have sworn something flickered behind Mr. Ruhle's eyes.

"Can I get you anything to drink? We have some _excellent _wines— Beaujolais, Pinot Noir, Shiraz…"

"I'll just have water for now, thanks," Ms. Frizzle said. "What were _you_ thinking of, Max?"

He blinked. "Oh— er— ah— water will be fine, thanks."

"Excellent choice! I'll be right back." As soon as Dominic was out of earshot, Ms. Frizzle leaned across the table and placed her right hand over Mr. Ruhle's.

"Max, are you alright? You seem, I don't know, _distracted._"

"It's nothing," he said, moving his hand away from hers. "Just had a busy day at work, that's all."

"Are you sure?"

He breathed in and out. "Yes."

"Well," she said, "if you need anything, let me know."

"Here are your waters," Dominic said, appearing seemingly out of nowhere with a platter on which two crystal goblets of ice water stood. "Would you like a few more minutes to decide what you're going to order, or have you made up your minds?"

As he placed the water glasses before them, Ms. Frizzle noticed a small silver ring with the Walkerville High crest and _Class of '84 _on Dominic's right hand.

"I didn't know you went to Walkerville High!" she said, taking a sip of water.

"Indeed I did, ma'am," he said. "Do you teach there?"

"Oh, no," Ms. Frizzle said. "I teach at the elementary. So does Max, actually."

"And what do you teach?" Mr. Ruhle made a subtle slash in the air with his left hand, but Ms. Frizzle, in her desire to be polite, ignored it.

"Third grade. Max here is the principal."

"Oh," Dominic said, taking out a pad of paper, "so _you _were the one that left Walkerville High after—"

"Yes," Mr. Ruhle said. "After the elementary school hired me."

He looked at Ms. Frizzle and smiled. "I think I'm ready to order. What about you?"

"Sounds good," she said, consulting the menu. "I think I'll have the pickerel."

"Two pickerel, please," Mr. Ruhle said to Dominic, scribbling away on the pad of paper with a black pen.

"Excellent choice," he said. "If you need anything, please let me know."

"He seems nice," Ms. Frizzle said, leaning across the table.

"Yeah," Mr. Ruhle said. "He does."

-

Dominic returned to the table a half-hour later and scooped up the dinner plates, holding them with one hand while he took out his pad and pen with the other.

"Did you enjoy dinner?"

"Oh yes," Ms. Frizzle said. "The pickerel was _fantastic! _It's been a long time since I had really good fish."

"I guess it was worth leaving the book club for, right?" Mr. Ruhle said, winking.

"Would anyone like to see the dessert menu? Coffee, perhaps?"

"Yes," Ms. Frizzle said, something occurring to her, "coffee would be lovely. I just have a question."

"Yes?"

"Have you ever heard of Belgian coffee?"

Dominic shook his head. "Can't say I have, and I worked in a _coffee shop_ before being hired here."

He cocked his head to one side. "Why? Do you think it should be on the menu?"

"No," she said, smiling. "It was just a question. I'll have my coffee black, no cream or sugar."

"Sounds good." Dominic turned to look at Mr. Ruhle.

"And for you, sir?"

"I'll have black coffee as well," Mr. Ruhle said.

"Two black coffees… gotcha. I'll be back soon with your order."

Ms. Frizzle leant across the table as soon as Dominic had left. "You like black coffee _too?_"

"I guess we have similar taste," Mr. Ruhle said, smiling.

"I guess," Ms. Frizzle said, deep in thought.

"I guess."

--

_**To be continued…**_


	6. Anything Could Happen

**Chapter Six: Anything Could Happen**

Valerie Frizzle was now officially a superwoman. She had, against all odds, managed to successfully get up, get dressed, put her makeup on _and _drive to school despite still feeling like she'd had a little too much wine at Max's house, where the two of them had gone after dinner at Mare Scuro.

"Good morning, class," she said to the eight students assembled before her, trying her to best to sound confident and not, in any possible way, sleep-deprived. Liz seemed to sense something, though, as the lizard's grip on her shoulders seemed a little tighter than usual.

"Good morning, Ms. Frizzle," they chorused, making her feel a little better. There was something immensely satisfying about being respected— maybe even _liked— _by a group of nine-year-olds.

"Today," she said, loosely gripping the edge of her desk, "we're going to learn about the Ancient Egyptians."

"Does this mean we'll go to Egypt?" D.A. whispered to Tim, her desk mate, while Phoebe, who sat at the desk across the aisle from her, turned her head and frowned.

"I don't know," Tim said, shrugging. "Anything could happen. It's the Magic School Bus, remember?"

-

The front doors of Walkerville Elementary closed silently as the Doctor slipped inside, only to pause at the sight of a well-dressed, dark-skinned woman sitting at Ms. Winters' desk.

"Oh, hello. You're new," he said, before taking out his psychic paper. "James McCrimmon, Walkerville School Division. And you are…?"

"Mrs. March," Tim's mother said, rising to shake his hand. "But you can call me Amy. You were the one that fixed Louise's schedule, right?"

The Doctor shrugged. "We all make mistakes sometimes. I'm only human, after all."

"Yes, about that… Mr. McCrimmon?"

"Oh, please call me James."

"Mr. McCrimmon… James… can I have a word? Alone?"

"I don't see why not," the Doctor said, looking about. "Where?"

"Oh, right here would suffice."

She inhaled.

"I was just wondering," she said, "about Ms. Frizzle."

"What about?"

"Well, you're on the Board of Directors, so you must have been there when her hiring was approved. I just wanted to ask if you noticed anything, well, _peculiar _about her."

"About who? Ms. Frizzle?" The Doctor shook his head. "Nah, she's brilliant! One of our best teachers, actually. Great with the kids."

Amy smiled. "I was just wondering… never mind. I'm sure you're a busy man. I'll just get back to my work."

"Nice to meet you, Amy," the Doctor called as he continued down the main corridor of Walkerville Elementary. "Don't work _too_ hard, now."

"Yes, sir," she said, frowning as she spoke. If everyone on the Board of Directors was of similar opinions as Mr. McCrimmon, trying to find _any_ fault with Ms. Frizzle— provided such fault existed— would be harder than expected.

-

"You see, class, thanks to the Ancient Egyptians we have all _sorts _of inventions that we use today. Modern-day paper was, in Ancient Egypt, made of palm leaves and called _papyrus. _And let's not forget about the pyramids at Giza."

Liz leapt off her shoulders and pulled a map of Egypt down, pointing at Giza with her tail.

Tim raised his hand. "Isn't there a theory that _aliens _built the pyramids?"

"Yes, Tim, there is. But of course, such theories have never been proven, which means that the mystery of the pyramids is currently –"

She inhaled. There was a face at the door, and judging by his scruffy brown hair and pale face, it was the Doctor.

"Class," she said, "would you excuse me for a moment? I have something to take care of."

-

"What," Ms. Frizzle said, once she'd stepped out into the hallway and moved away from the door (she didn't want her students hearing this), "are you _doing _here?"

"I told you I might be dropping by," the Doctor said. "Listen, you wouldn't _believe _what I just had to go through. That secretary, Amy Marsh, actually asked me if I _noticed anything peculiar when I hired you. _Is that strange or what?"

"No, not really," she said, "considering her track record. And it's March, not _Marsh._"

"You say potato," he said, shrugging. Ms. Frizzle bit her lip.

"Anyway, can you make this quick? I'm in the middle of teaching a class, you know."

"Oh! A class! I _love _classes!" Before Ms. Frizzle could stop him, the Doctor pushed the classroom door open and smiled at the assembled students.

"Hello there, I'm James McCrimmon, Walkerville School Division. And what are you learning today?"

His gaze landed on the map of Giza. "Ancient Egypt, you say. Not _terribly_ interesting, in my opinion. You might as well be learning about Mars."

"By the way, Ms. Frizzle and I are just having a friendly chat," he said, and took out the psychic paper. "See my badge? Good? She'll be right back in a moment."

The door closed shut again as D.A. and Tim looked at each other, eyes wide.

"_That's the same man we saw at the Smiths'!_" D.A. hissed, leaning closer to Tim. Phoebe noticed the looks on their faces and leant over across the aisle.

"You saw it too?" she murmured.

"Saw what?" D.A. whispered, turning around to face Phoebe.

"You know when that man was waving around that piece of paper, saying it was his badge?"

"Well, I didn't see his badge. I didn't see _anything._"

Phoebe leant even closer and lowered her voice. "The paper was… _blank._"

--

**The mystery deepens… **

**Please let me know what you think of this chapter (and all the others) by reviewing. It would be greatly appreciated – the positive reviews I had for Chapter 1 encouraged me to continue writing the story, so please tell me what you think.**

**Much thanks!**

**Hikan**


End file.
